Love Trumps Game (14 page)

M
yra was a nervous wreck when she arrived at the 7-Eleven to pick them up. Hattie couldn't blame her. The whole situation with Topps, the kids and not knowing if Neema was kidnapped, hurt, or dead or alive was starting to take its toll with nervous energy and more than her usual share of headaches. She'd even noticed two strands of gray hair growing at her edges and she couldn't have that. The pit of her stomach was starting to get that burning feeling with each passing day—all from worrying.

After the police had taken a report and talked to all cooperating witnesses, there was nothing more to talk about. Myra had felt like crying watching Sutton Towing load up her old vehicle to be carted away to some wrecking yard. She never drove the thing; still, the car held some sentimental value. It was a reminder of where she had come from.

“One of the kids had to tell him where you were, Mama. How else would he know that you're up here in Victorville?” They were loaded in Myra's SUV and on their way back to her house.

“I asked the kids, Myra. They didn't call and tell 'im.”

“What if they're lying? It wouldn't be the first time.” Myra gripped her steering wheel and looked back at Brandon through her rearview mirror. The boy was crazy about his father, and in his eyes, Topps, could do no wrong. Yeah, he was probably the
culprit. It was a shame that his twisted parental love was about to get all three of them killed. “You called your father, didn't you, Brandon? Admit it?”

“What's it to you?” Brandon sneered back.

“Boy, so help me, I will pull this car over and beat the snot…”

“Myra, please. He's no perfect angel, but I believe that he understands we have a serious problem going on here. I don't think the kids would call and tell their father where they are.” Hattie blew out a weary breath. “Besides, I've been holding on to his cell phone.”

“Mama, think about it, if that lunatic followed you to Target, chances are he knows where I live, too. This is too much. If Glen finds out, he'll have a fit.”

“Well, we don't want that.” Her words hit hard. Myra didn't have to say it. Hattie could feel it. Staying at her house put her family in jeopardy. Still, it was too late for what she coulda or shoulda done. “Sweetie, I know this is a real inconvenience for you. Maybe me and the kids should go back to the house. We could stay in the garage 'til the house is ready.”

“Mama, don't be ridiculous.”

“Maybe a hotel or motel.” Hattie turned her gaze out the passenger's side, hoping Myra would disagree. The thought of sleeping in a bed once occupied by a host of strangers made her skin crawl. And if she was fighting a war against a monster, she needed all the family support she could get. Obviously, Topps Jackson was a madman that didn't care who got hurt as long as he got his way.

“When will our mama come get us?” Raynita wanted to know. “I miss her.”

Hattie swiveled around in the plush leather seat. “Soon, I hope. Real soon.” Words easy to say. She wished she knew for sure.
What if Neema ran off and abandoned her kids?
The horrible thought kept popping into her head, taunting her. “Baby, don't worry, she's probably taking a little break.”

“Yeah, and I'm the Queen of Egypt,” Myra mumbled.

“I wanna go home to my own damn house,” Brandon announced. “I wanna play with my friends and ride my new bike.”

“Soon, Brandon, soon.” Hattie sighed. She was too tired to make a fuss over his profanity. What she had noticed about the kids, in a disturbing way, was how immune and nonchalant they were to drama. Seeing the car go up in flames had Raynita upset and teary eyed for a minute, but a bag of chips and ice cream sandwich had taken care of that. And Brandon? Humph. Nothing seemed to really faze the boy. He had gazed at the flaming vehicle like it was bonfire around a camp site. “I hear they have a nice setup at one of those Extended Stay hotels.”

Myra shook her head. “Yeah, if you like giving money away. Nah, y'all need to stay put for a while. I only wish Neema would bring her behind home and put an end to this madness.”

Hattie couldn't agree more. “I guess I should put my own car in the shop and have the engine repaired. I'm really sorry about your car. The police should be mailing out a report for your insurance company.”

“Mama, don't worry about it. Everyone is safe; that's what's important. We'll get through this.” Myra smiled over at her. Of all the times she'd tried to persuade Hattie to come up and spend some time at her house, it would have to be under trying circumstances.

“Where's the kids?” Hattie noticed that Princess the dog came with her, but not Trayvon and the twins. Princess was dressed in a rhinestone doggy-jacket.

“At home with the nanny. The twins had homework to finish
up. And you know Tray. If there's no video game involved, he can't be bothered.”

Hattie wasn't listening. Her house was unavailable; her car was in need of repair. She couldn't get to her own money. Her life was upside down and she wasn't sure what to do about it. And Neema. She never prayed so hard in her life for Neema to call or show back up. She simply wanted to know if her daughter was alive and well; she would even forget about being mad at her. Well, maybe after she slapped her a couple of times.

Later that evening, after a good supper of pot roast, garlic bread, mashed potatoes, and salad, after the kids were bathed and in bed, Hattie sat on the bed in the guest room where she had been sleeping, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. She'd called the precinct earlier to see if Detective Moon had learned anything new of Neema's whereabouts. Nothing. No activity on her bank account. No phoned-in tips. It didn't seem like they were trying hard enough to find her daughter. Hattie had slammed the kitchen phone down in the detective's ear.

“I'm sorry,” she said when Myra had looked at her like she was crazy. “This is so frustrating. It's driving me crazy not knowing.”

“They still haven't heard anything?” Myra asked, removing items from her top-of-the-line dishwasher. Princess was at her side, watching her every move. The dog was devoted. “At least we know that she's not in some hospital or the morgue. They do check.”

“So they say. According to Detective Moon, there's still no activity on her bank account. They've been interviewing people from her home phone contacts, but no one seems to know anything.” Her eyes welled up. “This don't feel like one of her little stunts. Something is wrong this time, Myra. I believe that fool has done something to her. I can feel it.”

“I know. I was thinking the same thing.” Myra had made some
chamomile tea. She was ready for bed with her cream-hued satin robe, gown, and matching slippers. “Here, Mama,” she said, bringing her a cup of steaming tea. “This should help you sleep.” The two sat down at the elegant dining room table. It was mainly a room for show, as Myra rarely entertained or ate at the five-thousand-dollar, hand-carved table.

“I need some sleep. I feel so tired.”

“Oh, and if you need a car to get around in, I still have my old Honda stored in the garage. Dusty, but it runs good. I've been saving it for Trayvon's first car.”

“Thanks, Myra. You have really been a big help.”

“No problem. I just wish there was more that I could do. And, well, that's why I wanted to run something by you.”

Hattie perked up. “Something like what?”

“I was thinking that…well…” Myra stirred her tea furiously. “I know this guy, and he helps people with problems.”

“What kind of problems?” Hattie's tone was calm, curious.

“Whatever problem you have. Actually, he's a friend through Glen. Glen was his doctor when he was diagnosed with colon cancer some years back. His cancer went into remission and he sort of took a liking to Glen, you know, like a good friend.”

Hattie raised a brow. “And?” She'd been at Myra's house for several days and seen her son-in-law, Glen, only once. Doctors stayed busy. She knew that, but goodness, what's the point of having a man if you never get to see him? “You bring this up to say what?”

“Uh, well…that he can help you. He's what you could call an ‘equalizer.' He can make it all go away. He can make Topps go away.”

Surely she wasn't suggesting what she thought. “Go away, like in kill somebody?”

“Mama, if that's what it takes.”

“You want me to have the kids' father killed?” Hattie was staring at her incredulously because that was exactly her suggestion. “Myra, you can't be serious.”

Myra blinked and looked away, then made eye contact again. “Mama, look, sometimes people are put in situations where they don't have choices. That's how life is.” Her eyes glistened and there was an urgency in her tone to help her mother resolve this matter. The sooner, the better before Glen put his foot down. “His name is B. Kelly, but he goes by the name of Bruno.”

“Myra, it's a sin to kill. You need to read your Bible.”

“And it's a shame to sit back and let yourself be killed. It's not like I'm talking about you killing the man yourself.”

“Girl, what is wrong with you? It's like I don't even know who you are.” Hattie shot up from her seat. “I'm a Christian, not a killer.” She wanted the madness with Topps Jackson to be over with, too, but one thing was certain: She wasn't about to take another person's life.

Myra shot up, too. “Mama, you can't sit back and do nothing!” she fumed. “You either have to solve the problem or give the man his kids. Just give the damn kids to him! Why can't he have 'em?”

Was she out of her damn mind? Hattie glared at her with hot resentment. This wasn't about solving the problem for the kids' sake. It was for Myra's sake. Myra's perfect little world was being disturbed and she couldn't deal with it. It was as clear as glass.

“You can talk until you're blue in the face, but he's not getting his hands on Nita and Brandon. If he does, it'll be over my dead body.”

“Mama, he's their father. Give the man what he wants, so he can leave you alone! You can always take him to court and get the kids legally. He's their biological father, for crying out loud!”

Hattie narrowed her eyes at her. “He may be the father, but
that don't make it right. Neema left those kids with me, and I promised her that I would give them back to her. Not the father.”

“But what if she don't show back up, then what?”

It was a horrible thought to consider. “Well, I'll have to cross that bridge when I get to it.”

“Mama, you're just being stubborn.”

“Myra, mothers give up on kids every single day. I know I can't save all the kids in the world, but I plan to do all I can to save just two. Just two!”

“Mama, I know you love those kids; I'm just saying it's not worth getting killed over.”

“If that's the Lord's will, so be it. At least I'll leave this earth knowing I did the best that I could, which is more than a lot of mothers and grandmothers can say. As long as I have God's love on my side, we'll be okay.”

“Mama, if you think love will get you out of this…” The phone rang, startling the two women.

Being that it was close to midnight, the only person Myra knew that called the house so late was her husband, Glen, to let her know how much longer he would be. Myra sucked air through her teeth before going to answer it. “Hello.”

An unfamiliar voice asked to speak to Hattie. Actually it asked for “that bitch Hattie.”

“Who is this? How'd you get this number?”

The voice demanded to speak to Hattie.

“Mama, it's for you.” Myra reached the receiver out to her, then stood watching.

Hattie put the phone to her ear. “Who is this?”

The voice said, “You know who the fuck it is, ol' lady. Last chance. My kids or yo' life. Make a choice.”

“Over my dead body!” Hattie slammed the receiver down so hard that a searing pain resonated in her hand.

“T
hat stank-assed witch!” Topps took Gina's cell phone and flung it against the living room wall. The instrument made a small hole in the thin drywall before it shattered. Gina ran out from her bathroom to see what was up. “Neema's mammy think I'm playing with her ass.”

“What the hell? Nigga, why you do that? I just got that phone last week.”

“Yo', who gives a shit, Gina. I'll get you a better one.”

“That's not the point, Topps. It was my phone, not yours.”

“I said, who gives a shit!” His malcontent was like a sickness eating away at him. Each passing day was another day of failure. He still didn't know where Neema was. Still didn't have his kids. Couldn't move on without closure. “I'm sick of shit, I know that.”

Slick was gone. His ashes scattered here and there. His soldiers had been disbursed. All three warehouses were shut down until further notice. It was a notice that wouldn't be coming. Former workers were lucky. They had been spared their lives. His first inclination had been to pop every last one of them, but such a task seemed tremendous, even for him. What did it matter if they told about his drug business now? He was closed down, all product moved and sold. The bulk of his cash was stashed in Swiss accounts, fat and waiting. Secret safes had been filled to the brim with his money.
Money, money and mo money.
He was a man set for life. He had everything except for his children.

Between moving drugs, buying up old land, loan-sharking and a few scattered franchises, Topps Jackson had accumulated enough money not to have to work another day in his life. Still, he was discontent. Restless syndrome. With no drugs to run, no business to oversee, he now had time on his hands. Too much time was driving him crazy. He glared at Gina, waiting for that skank to say one more thing he didn't like…He didn't have to wait long.

“Baby, maybe you need to get out and get some air. You agonizing too much about those kids. Leave 'em be for now.”

“Say what, Gina?” His eyes locked on her like radar. She had just gotten out the shower and was standing there with a large white towel wrapped around her. Gina was jealous of his kids. That's why she kept making little snide remarks about them. Just like a bitch. Always jealous about some shit she can't control.

“Baby, look, I'm only saying that you're getting too upset about those kids. It's not like they're with a complete stranger. Let 'em be with they grandmother 'til their mother shows back up. That's all.”

Topps got up. Gina's jealousy reminded him of his mother. Lanette had been a jealous bitch, too. That jealousy had seeped out of her daily, like a stench. It had caused her to treat him like he were somebody's stepchild that didn't deserve much in life. Always taking shit away from him. Taking everything that could cause him some happiness. He grinned, thinking of how the last laugh had been on him when her ass had starved to death.

He had been an only child for Lanette Wrider. The perfect little boy to a young mother who couldn't seem to find the right path in life. Lanette had tried college. It wasn't for her. She had tried opening her own business, a dress shop. That didn't work for long. Then, Mack Jackson had blown into her life some time after that. According to his mother, Mack was handsome and smart. Mack
loved her. He would make everything better. Mack had brought hope, security and dreams. Then, Mack brought hard drugs into his mother's life.

Finding a needle sticking out the arm of his passed-out mother became the norm. Days when his mother was good, she was good; but those days became as rare as having food in the house, heat to keep them warm—clean clothes to wear. Topps had been young, but saw depression slipping in like some lowly thief. His father, Mack, came around every now and then—long enough to keep his mother addicted. Then came the hate. Topps' young eyes had watched resentment eat away at his mother day after day. Mothers who hate men sometimes hate the sons they produce. Unnecessary scolding and beatings proved it. Hatred was like jealousy.

Topps couldn't stand an envious woman, and lately, he was spending a hell of a lot of time with one. Gina didn't have any kids, so she couldn't stand his. Gina probably didn't care if Neema showed back up or not. That's how jealousy worked.

Gina was walking away from him.

“Yo', what the hell you trying to say, Gina? Why you keep jaw-jackin' and trippin' about my kids?”

“Fuck, Topps, ain't nobody trippin' but you. You the one keep drivin' back and forth to the damn desert terrorizing folks. They livin' with they grandmother, big deal. Stop trippin' and leave them people alone.”

That was all she wrote. For a tall man it was amazing how fast he could move. Blam. In her face. He was at her side like a blown gust of winter wind. He grabbed and started choking on her neck. “Bitch!”

Gina tried to scream, but with no exchange of air, it was a major task.

“This is the last time I'm warning you about yo' damn mouth. Ain't nobody asked you a damn thang!” He had her pinned to the new beige carpet, gagging, trying to scream. Each time it seemed that she would pass out for sure, he let up. Stingy with air, but she could breathe.

Eyes bulging, Gina coughed and gagged.

“Ain't nobody taking shit away from me as long as I live! You hear me, Gina? No damn body!” He released the grip on her neck, grabbed her by her long blondish-brown weave and dragged her to the bathroom kicking and screaming.

“Topps, stop it. I didn't mean nothin'! Let me go!” The carpet burned her skin.

“Not 'til yo' ass understand what I'm saying. That ol' tramp ain't keeping my kids and that's word. Them my fuckin' kids. Mine!”

“All right already! I'm sorry.”

Like a man on a mission he ignored her pleading.

In the bathroom he turned on the water in the tub, and saw the terror register in her eyes. That pleased him. “I wish yo' stank ass would try to get up and scat.”

Gina tried to claw her way up, but Topps was much stronger. He did a perfect execution of grabbing her frame and grappling her down into the cold water. “Stupid thoughts come from a dirty mind, Gina. That's why yo' thoughts are so fucked up; you need to clean out yo' mind. Wash those dirty thoughts out.”

“Get the hell off of me. You crazy mutherfucker! I ain't playing with your ass!”

Topps wasn't playing either as his big hand saddled her face and pushed it down into the water. “You a strong bitch, Gina, but dirt is dirt. I'ma help yo' dirty ass get clean.”

She fought and splashed with all her might but couldn't stop his assault. The fear of dying flashed in her eyes, and then Topps
allowed her up for air only to push her head back into the water. Maybe next time she'd keep that mouth of hers shut. “Are you clean yet? Huh, Gina? I can't hear you.”

Finally, when he felt her struggle getting weaker he let her up for air. “That's better, ain't it? Clean as a mutherfucker. See. That's what I'm talkin “bout.” He stood up straight. Gina was a hot mess to look at with wet snot hanging, face twisted, hair all wild. Pleased, Topps smiled. Keeping bitches in line was a neverending job. Tiresome, too. He could hear his stomach growling.

“Yo', Gina. I'm hungry! Get yo'self together, woman. Fix yo' man some food.”

After washing his hands and towel-drying off, Topps went into the kitchen to check on the food supply. It was Gina's idea for him to move in with her while he listed and sold his big house. At his former residence too many of his soldiers knew where he lived. A lot of his enemies knew, too. He couldn't have that. The plan was to start new and fresh once he got the kids back and settled. He could move to another state and buy a new house, maybe even start up a new drug business where he could start training his son. Brandon was nearing the right age to be recruited. He even had big plans for Raynita. Her innocent face could probably move a lot of drugs without suspicion. Keeping it all in the family. That's what it was all about.

“Gina! Don't keep me waitin'!”

Sharing habitats with Gina was okay for a minute, but like a lot of skanks he knew, she talked too damn much. He couldn't have no skank trying to run his business, personal life or otherwise, especially when it came to his kids. That was the downside. Another problem staying at Gina's place was its size. It was a small dwelling with only two bedrooms. Still, he liked that none of his former associates knew its location. Though he still slept
with a gun beneath his pillow, he felt somewhat safe. After pulling up the carpet in the spare bedroom closet and pulling up a few floorboards, he'd found the perfect place to store some of his cash.

Pearly, Gina's white Persian cat, padded softly into the room. The animal purred before rubbing up against his leg.

“Hey there, little pussy.” He picked the cat up, stroking its soft fur. “You hungry, too?” He had weakness for defenseless animals. He had a puppy once when he was around nine. Found the poor thing shivering under a bus stop bench on his way home from school. Topps still recalled how he took the puppy up, happy to have something to love—and ultimately, something that would love him back. He had taken the puppy home and fed it warm milk and cold cuts, prepared to raise it. But when his mother had awakened from her drug-induced coma, she was livid.

“Little negro boy, you must be crazy! I ain't tryin' to feed another damn mouth!” his mother had screamed at him. His nine-year-old eyes had watched in horror as she took up the puppy, and marched it out the house to the fence. His mother put the frightened puppy outside the gate with a hard swat to its little behind. “You git now! Gon' now. Get on outta here!”

Two days later, he discovered the puppy's maggot-filled, ravaged body. He had cried two days behind that incident.

“Yeah. You look hungry.” Topps put the cat down and located some cans of cat food. He opened a can and put it on a paper plate. “There you go, partner. Handle that for now.” He washed his hands two times before heading to the living room to click on the fifty-two-inch plasma television. Maybe some tube would help settle his nerves. Smoking a blunt would probably do the trick, but he wanted to keep a clear head when he drove back to Victorville later. “Gina! I'm still waitin'. Damn, boo, what's taking you so long?!”

Dressed in a red sundress with wide straps, Gina appeared. Her eyes were bloodshot red, almost a perfect match to her dress. She had a bruise on her forehead and a few scratches on her face. More battle scars. For some reason her nose looked larger.

“Boo, I'm sorry. You know how I get.” Topps pulled a small vial of coke from his pocket, and then used a credit card to section off a few thin lines on the glass coffee table. “Look what I got for you, baby. Come try this shit. It's good stuff.”

Gina stood looking skeptical.

“Baby, I said, I'm sorry.” Topps looked up, making his face appear as sympathetic as possible for a brutal man who secretly believed that women were beneath him. “You know how I feel about my kids. I'm stressed like a mutha' right now. But it's gon' get better. You'll see. Once I get my business handled, find another house, things will get better.”

Gina didn't crack a smile. Didn't say a word.

“I'ma make it up to you, boo. You'll see.” He waited for a reply that didn't come. “Can you fix me a sandwich? Throw some of that Cajun turkey and black forest ham on some bread. Don't forget the mustard and some of those little peppers I like.”

Gina stared at him. Her still-nervous hand rubbed at the tender redness along her light-complexioned neck before dismissing herself to the kitchen to fix Topps something to eat.

“Thanks, boo. We can go shopping later, if you want. Maybe go look at that silver Range Rover you been wanting so bad.” Topps fixed his attention back to the large plasma screen where the sad and pitiful faces of hungry children stared back at him.
Feed The Children,
that's what the show was called. “Look at that shit,” he mumbled. A damn shame, if you asked him.
Hell,
he thought indignantly,
Why can't the folks over there with the camera doing the exploiting feed they asses? What's up with that?

He had a wad of money sitting on the table. Topps picked it up. He waited for the program to show the address so he could freeze it on the screen. It couldn't hurt to send a few bills that way. Help some starving black kids with a meal or two. He got up to go find some stamps and an envelope.